I want to tell you a million things.
A million stories,
But I am afraid.
Afraid once I start I won't stop.
Afraid you won't care.
Afraid that when I look into those brown eyes I'll see
only see my reflection and nothing more.
Afraid that when you hear all the
bad, that when I reach for you,
as I often do, you will turn away.
As they often do.

I taste her tears...

still wet upon her trembling lips
and break

the ache of one so gentle
almost too much to bear.

I kiss her eyes
the pain so tangible runs deep

fresh wounds criss cross older faded scars
upon her ashen cheeks.

I kiss her forehead
and try to tell her... I'm here

she does not hear

as she leaves me without moving
I realise sometimes words are not enough.

the first thing
that I noticed
was the child's beauty.

then again
I realised how
you can't judge a book
by its binding.

my fingers
laced behind my head,
while the  back of my mind
rest in the palm of my hands.

the linking of
those boney fingers,
a sign
of my threadbare body,
barely old,   barely able.

there she was,
waving her habitual bliss
like a carrot
on the end of a stick.

while a silent psalm
surrounds a starry angel's glow.